Slopes and Curves
by earth-dragon-1
Summary: Coffee shop AU. Ichabod is an architect and Abbie plays the French Horn. Jenny owns the coffee shop. Of course he was going to notice the shape of a woman, framed in metal and glass, curving and sloping in such enticing degrees. That's what he did for a living - notice shapes. It's just that most shapes weren't attached to such creamy looking dark skin and curly hair.


He has to admit, at first, he was just a shallow male about it all.

Every morning he would walk by her apartment building to catch the 8:05 train to work and he would see her exquisite figure silhouetted against the window, looking out on the city. Well, of course he noticed the building - he was an architect after all. And if she chose to keep her blinds open, well, that was her business.

Of course he was going to notice her.

Of course he was going to notice the shape of a woman, framed in metal and glass, curving and sloping in such enticing degrees. That's what he did for a living - notice shapes. It's just that most shapes weren't attached to such creamy looking dark skin and curly hair.

And it would have been fine; she would have just been another pretty shape to admire from afar, except that he began to see her up-close.

Ichabod had been utterly startled the first time he ran into the woman at the corner market. He only saw her from around the corner of a vendor booth, but he knew instantly it was her. He knew shapes, of course; he never forgot one once he had seen it. And he knew the coils of her hair tumbling down her back.

And now he also knew the bend of her knuckles when reaching out for an organic apple. He knew she liked the same organic apples that he preferred.

He saw her at the little coffee shop just around the corner from her building. The fact that it was around the corner from her building was notwithstanding; he lived not far from the area himself. But it was his decision to pick a table close to hers so he could see the title of the book she was reading. And if he smiled a bit to himself when he realized he had recently downloaded that title to his own Kindle, well, he was a cheerful guy; he often smiled.

But it had to stop. The woman - God - The woman.

He didn't even know her name. He couldn't chase her around the city, follow her into markets and coffee shops. That was creepy. It was stalking. Even if he hadn't really meant to be following her around to these places, if felt as if he had been doing so. He wasn't a creep. He wouldn't tolerate anyone else being creepy. He just really appreciated the woman's aesthetic, her look.

Women were like buildings with slopes and curves and angles; gorgeous to admire. They could make the blood pump faster in his veins. But when a door was closed, a door was closed, and Ichabod would respect that. He would never enter a building uninvited.

He would just pass by the building as often as he could, unobtrusively, and admire.

He was surprised to pass by her window one day to see her seated with a French Horn in her lap. It was a large instrument and obscured most of her body, but it was, itself, a beautiful instrument. The horn gleamed golden even in the pale morning light, and the intricate curves of metal winding around between the keys and the bell were complex and fascinating.

There was no stand in front of her, no sheet music, so he could see the way her fingers touched the keys, pressing down and then releasing to change notes as she saw fit. Her hands held the instrument with confidence, sure of their place, with a grip that spoke of years of practice. Her lips pursed in perfect embouchure as air flowed between them, creating a kind of intimacy between her and the horn, not altogether unlike a lover's kiss.

But it was her eyes that drew him in. They were closed, shuttered, lashes fluttering as the tune in her head flowed through her muscles, her veins, constricting and contracting, moving fingers, hands and lips to produce tone. Sounds came not from her horn but from her, from her movement, her dedication, her clear love of the craft.

Finally, her music stopped, her eyes opened and she saw him, watching her. She smiled at him and gave a small wave. And now he knew so much about her. He knew how she looked in passion, how her smile was constructed, the paint of her eyes and teeth.

Ichabod flushed, waved back clumsily, and stumbled quickly around the corner so he could catch his breath again. He braced his hands against her brick building facade and let the rough grain scrap against his palms.

He so badly wanted to knock at the door.

It was, by pure chance, that four days later Ichabod found himself back in the same coffee shop just around the corner of the building from the beautiful, nameless, French horn playing woman. He had been called there by the owner, a Miss Jennifer Mills, because she was interested in doing some renovating and remodeling on the small building and she wanted a consult. This was a good opportunity for Ichabod. If the owner liked his plans then he could set her up with the best contractors. The coffee shop was in a great location, and with a bit of sprucing up, it would draw in even bigger crowds. His name would be attached to the building and the people would see his work. It would be good business for everyone.

Jennifer Mills was a smart business woman who knew what she wanted and had already drawn up several ideas. She was closing the shop for the day and left Ichabod at the counter to excitedly flip through her notes and crude sketches; there was so much he could do here. She wanted to make the seating area more cozy, a bit more old fashioned, but the kitchen needed to be sleek and modern. She had drawn in plans for an extra storage room in the back and, for some reason, she wanted to put up acoustic panels in a small room upstairs.

The bell over the door rang, signaling one last customer. Funny, but he thought she had already turned the OPEN sign to CLOSED. Well, it wasn't his concern. He was curious about those acoustic panels, though. With his nose still buried in papers, he rose from his seat. "Um, Miss Jenny…" And he would call her Miss Jenny no matter than she insisted "just plain old Jenny is fine." He could not help being a bit of an old fashioned Englishmen. "Would you mind explaining about these panels upstairs? I'm just a bit curious."

"Those would be for me."

Ichabod spun around and was suddenly face to face with the women.

The Women.

The beautiful, French Horn playing women with coiled hair and architecture as stately and curved, as seductive as the Eiffel Tower; the white paint of her smile gleamed at him and she held out her manicured hand for a shake.

And Ichabod dropped his papers all over the floor.

"OH! Oh, excuse -" he fumbled his words. "Terribly sorry! I didn't… I didn't mean..." Ichabod crouched down to gather the scattered papers, a furious blush rising to his cheeks.

The woman crouched down beside him and began to help him collect the papers. "Abbie," she said, introducing herself. "My name is Abbie."

"Yes. Hello," he replied in rush, hoping he didn't sound too rude, but still too shocked and mortified to string together long sentences. "My name is Ichabod Crane."

"I've seen you around. You've been by my building. And here, in the coffee shop."

Ichabod fervently wished for the floor to open up and swallow him. He was sure his face was going to burst into actual flame. "Well, you know, I… I live in the neighborhood, so…"

"You saw me playing the other day."

"Yes, terribly sorry about that. Didn't mean to disturb you. Forgive me. I didn't -" But suddenly a warm hand covered his own, one of beautiful soft flesh and thrumming blood, and for once Ichabod didn't think of architecture. He didn't think of cold metal or brick. Sloping curves were her fingers wrapped around his and his breath stopped in his throat.

"It's ok. I didn't mind. I was glad someone appreciated it. The acoustic panels you mentioned are actually for me. My sister is going to make me a music room upstairs so I have a better place to practice."

Ichabod finally - finally - looked up into smiling, honeyed eyes. Kind eyes. And without his knowledge or consent his fingers squeezed hers just the tiniest bit. "Your sister?"

"Um hum. Jenny told me she was going to have someone come look at her plans today. She wanted me to come by and have a look as well. To see if I needed to add anything to the music room. I take it you're the architect."

He smiled, the thundering in his chest calming to a more steady, but no less exciting, fluttering. He stood once again and pulled Abbie to her feet as well, never letting go of her hand. "I'm Ichabod, yes. I hope very much to work for your sister. I swear, Miss Abbie, If she lets me, I can help make this shop, and your music room, the most amazing place!"

If Ichabod sounded like he was making a promise, a plea, well that wasn't far off the mark. He knew he had been caught out, but he also knew this was a chance for him to prove himself. He knew he was a damn good architect, with amazing ideas and a true eye for the aesthetic. With the right materials he could give both Abbie and Jenny exactly what they wanted, bring in new customers, make everyone happy. Maybe even himself.

Perhaps if he were allowed to construct the building he would be given an invitation inside.

"That sounds wonderful," Abbie answered, smiling, knowingly. "Let's get Jenny to make some coffee for us and we can go over all the plans."


End file.
